


you're such a violent high

by junes_discotheque



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Dom/sub, Flogging, M/M, Masochism, Power Play, Sandwiches, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-05-17 14:19:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5873779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Hamilton, speechwriter for President Washington, has an arrangement with deputy chief of legislative affairs Thomas Jefferson.</p><p>The arrangement involves a long-standing regular date at D.C.'s most discreet BDSM club.</p><p>And that's not the worst of his problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_To: A. Hamilton_

_From: T. Jefferson_

_Subject: Touching Base_

_Message:_

 

_8:00 at the usual place._

 

\- - -

Alexander rubs his hand over his face, working his thumb against the knot between his eyes. They need a better code. They need a _much_ better code, if they're just going to keep ignoring the part where they haven't bothered exchanging private cell numbers. Which are probably monitored by the NSA anyway, and Alexander's not naïve enough to believe that there isn't someone over there who would be thrilled to leak White House booty calls.

Still. He's the one who came up with the 'touching base' code in the first place, but would it kill Jefferson to come up with something more?

(Probably, yes. If Jefferson had his way, he'd be stuck attempting to figure out if they're _on for tonight_ based on whether Jefferson's smirk is more _condescending_ or _arrogant_.)

He doesn’t bother writing back. They have a strictly _regrets only_ RSVP system, and anyway, Jefferson knows Alexander’s gagging for it. It’s been a week and a half since either of them have managed to leave before ten. But tonight--oh, _tonight,_ they all have strict orders to be out of the White House by seven _._ Alexander has finally finished the first draft of the speech for the dinner next Tuesday (something about fisheries? or maybe that’s just the menu; he knows he’s gone off topic at least a dozen times) and von Steuben has spent all morning issuing thinly-veiled threats to the junior aides, and he might be the Baron’s favorite but if he’s getting in trouble tonight, he’d _much_ rather it be by Jefferson’s hand.

Alexander glances at his watch, a scratched-up hunk of plastic from Target, and frowns. It’s not even noon yet, and he knows he’ll be thinking about _tonight_ right until the moment he gets to the club. His hands are shaking. His fingers tap restlessly on his torn blotter.

He decides to check out the cafeteria. With any luck, he’ll actually get there early enough to claim one of the coveted Reubens on marble rye. And if he’s _very_ lucky, he might even get a brownie.

\- - -

Alexander isn't even close to _lucky,_ never mind _very lucky,_ and it’s clear to him the second he walks into the cafeteria just how much the universe hates him today. Because there, at the end of the line, in pinstriped slacks and magenta shirtsleeves (rolled up and cuffed just below his elbows, showing off his toned forearms) is Jefferson. He laughs at something the pretty redhead (Emily? Erin?) behind the counter says, and it sets his black curls bouncing on his broad shoulders.

Alexander realizes, a moment too late, that he’s staring. Someone behind him coughs. Jefferson glances over his shoulder.

Steeling himself for the thoroughly _unpleasant_ encounter to come, Alexander attempts to slide into the line with the kind of careless ease that he's never actually been able to pull off. It's clear this time is no different, going by Jefferson's unimpressed snort, but he's got more important things to worry about.

Namely, that the very last Reuben and brownie are in Jefferson’s hands, and Alexander _knows_ he grabbed both the second he saw Alexander walk in. It's common knowledge that Jefferson prefers tuna, and he's often disparaged Alexander's sandwich preferences to his face.

Alexander glares at him and reaches for the stack of peanut butter and jelly on sourdough. Thomas catches his wrist, squeezing just enough that Alexander feels his stomach plummet. _Here_ ? They haven’t talked about not playing at work (to be honest, Alexander thought it didn’t need saying) and it unbalances him. And yet, he feels a tiny thrill at the notion, the jolt of adrenaline before the _main event_.

“Go pick a table,” Jefferson says, his voice pitched low enough to be discreet. The words vibrate through Alexander, the reedy timbre pricking at his skin, and he doesn’t bother hiding his shudder. Jefferson’s smirk is bright as he grabs one of his preferred tuna on wheatberry sandwiches and stacks it on top of his brownie. He catches Alexander looking forlornly at the food in Jefferson’s hands and across the counter. He shakes his head. “ _Go_ ,” and it’s definitely an order. Alexander has to swallow a whimper, and he scurries off obediently before remembering himself. He thinks it should probably make him angry, Jefferson playing games like this at work, but he’s desperate enough that he doesn’t really care.

And anyway, it’s just lunch. If Jefferson were trying to dominate him over policy, that’d be one thing, but over a _sandwich_? He’ll allow it, for now.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he sits down at the table in the farthest corner, half-hidden behind a short wall. That he’s _allowing_ it to happen. That he sits with his back to the room, instead of to the wall, by his own preference rather than Jefferson’s. That the anxiety rising in his chest like the tide is caused by the feeling of exposure rather than anticipation of whatever Jefferson has planned.

That he can _handle_ this.

And then Jefferson’s sliding into the chair opposite him, lounging back against the wall, perfect hair framing his awful face with its omnipresent smirk and malicious eyes. He slowly unwraps the tuna sandwich, his long fingers playing with the plastic. He plucks the little cellophane-adorned toothpick from the center of one of the triangles and twirls it a little.

“Alexander.”

He bites his lip and tears his gaze away from Jefferson’s fingers, fighting down images of just what those hands will be doing to him tonight. He can’t quite meet Jefferson’s stare, but he thinks he manages to fake it by staring at the man’s eyebrows. One of them lifts, and he knows he hasn’t.

“Put your hands on the table. Palms up.”

He does, quirking an eyebrow in question.

“Good. Sit there, like that. Don’t move, don’t talk.”

Alexander wants to ask _why_ , wants to ask _what’s in it for me,_ but Jefferson’s tone has slipped from his usual mocking lilt to the lower, smoother tones he uses to demand obedience in their more _intimate_ settings. It’s not put-on, either; they’ve been at this for eight months and Alexander can tell when Jefferson’s forcing it. No. He’s just as on edge as Alexander, just as affected by their longer-than-normal drought, and while Alexander doubts Jefferson had any intention other than pissing him off before Alexander went and _responded,_ he knows Jefferson needs this just as badly.

So he ducks his head a little, a non-verbal _yes, sir,_ and can’t help the small, pleased smile at Jefferson’s sharp breath. For the first time since he walked into the cafeteria, Alexander feels some measure of control returning to him.

He curls and uncurls his fingers, barely a twitch, and releases it.

Jefferson bites into his tuna sandwich. “This is nice, isn’t it?” he says. “A whole lunch free from your incessant whining. I can’t imagine how Laurens can tolerate sharing an office with you.” Alexander can feel his face heating up, and he hopes his complexion--pallid from stress and sleep deprivation as it is--is enough to hide the flush.

Mercifully, Jefferson chooses to focus on his sandwich rather than on taunting Alexander. It does, unfortunately, mean that Alexander can’t taunt him back for his hypocrisy later, but considering they’re in the middle of the White House cafeteria, he appreciates the discretion.

Much _less_ mercifully, Jefferson is instead staring at him, and Alexander manages to meet his eyes and now he can’t look away. He’s sinking, falling, and his fingers twitch desperately, grasping for hold of _something._ But with his palms up, there's nothing, and he is helpless under  Jefferson's piercing gaze. He shudders. The weight of Jefferson’s regard sweeps over him, choking him, and then as soon as he's sure he's drowned, it lifts. Alexander breathes.

He's floating now. The words that cloud his mind are all but gone, reduced to tiny whispers that are quickly carried away by Jefferson's own breaths. Under other circumstances, the loss of words would send him spiraling into shock, but he is anchored, and he smiles. Jefferson doesn't return it, but his eyes soften and Alexander thinks he might be chewing with slightly less arrogance. He wants to stay in this place forever.

A minute, ten, an hour--he loses track of how time passes--but all too soon, Jefferson licks the last bite of tuna from his fingers (Alexander wets his own lips) and gathers his napkins and the plastic wrap into a ball. He stands leisurely, stretching and showing off the shadows of his toned abs under his pink shirt. Alexander's fingers twitch again.

“Stay,” Jefferson orders, under his breath. He doesn't wait for Alexander's nod before sweeping the Reuben and brownie off the table and striding over to the trash cans on the other side of the room. Alexander's breath catches in his throat. His hands shake, and he moves to curl them into fists to brace against the sharp tug at his  consciousness, but he is still under Jefferson's orders and some other part of his mind rebels at disobedience.

 _Was I not good enough?_ he wonders. The doubt doesn't so much creep as hook into him like a fishing line, as if he were the poor doomed tuna in Jefferson's sandwich. It drags him into the harsh, blinding fluorescent-lit cafeteria, and he is thrashing.

There's a hand on his shoulder. He looks up and sees dark, concerned eyes, framed by thick eyebrows and black curls. His breathing stutters.

Jefferson places the unharmed Reuben in front of him.

“See you tonight,” he says, so quiet and genuine that for a second Alexander doubts it's really him. _Doesn't he have a doppelganger at State?_ “Don't rush back.”

And like that, he's gone.

\- - -

Alexander rolls his wrists so that his palms are pressed against the table. He's a little sore from holding the awkward position through lunch, and he notices his arms are still trembling, but he feels _solid._ He feels _present._

He also feels a burning in the pit of his stomach. He is _furious,_ at Jefferson for putting him in this position and at himself for allowing it. Worse, for _wanting_ it.

Alexander grabs the sandwich and very nearly flees, ignoring Jefferson’s persistent voice in his head telling him to _slow down, dammit, wait_ until his mind is back. But without him here Alexander is lost, and all he wants to do is hide in his office for the rest of the day.

Which, considering he shares said office with John Laurens, is easier said than done.

Laurens is half obscured behind a pile of folders and papers and books when Alexander walks in. He glances up briefly to note Alexander’s presence before returning to whatever he's attempting to type on an iPad.

From the way John’s swearing, it isn’t going well.

“Sorry,” John says sheepishly, answering Alexander's unspoken question. “Madison took my laptop.”

“Hmm,” Alexander says. He drops the Reuben on his desk and stares at it. “What does he want now?”

“Other than to piss me off? Hell if I know. But I stuck a lojack on it,” John grins, holding up his phone. “Madison tries to take it out of the White House and _sirens._ I hope he tries it.”

“Hmm,” Alexander says again. John raises an eyebrow at him. Thankfully, he doesn't ask, just hunches back over his iPad and disappears behind the chaos on his desk.

Alexander finds himself at loose ends for the rest of the afternoon. With the fisheries (?) speech complete, he doesn't have much else until the first round of revisions hits his desk, and that won't be until the next afternoon at least. He spends an hour doing namechecks on the programs for the next month of White House banquets, then gets drawn into an argument with the junior Republican congressman from Ohio.

(Which, really, the kid should be yelling at Madison. _He's_ the one who ghostwrites for half of Congress. And not any particular half, either, hence the current situation with Jr. R-OH and three Democratic members of the House committee on natural resources.)

The fight re-energizes him, despite the unworthiness of his opponent and the inanity of the conflict. He even gets an apology out of the congressman. Grudging, sure, but an apology nevertheless, and he finally takes a moment to unwrap the Reuben still sitting on his desk.

Despite having gone cold, the first bite is only victory. There is no bitter taste of Thomas Jefferson in the sauerkraut. He very nearly inhales the first half of the sandwich and licks his fingers absently as he skims through his emails. Mostly junk and things he doesn't necessarily want to address right away (or ever) but he comes to a pause on a message from Duer over at Treasury.

Alexander, with a speechwriter position that’s _junior_ in title only, and a full three semesters as an undergrad econ major before switching to a double in poli sci and pre-law, has somehow become the _“fresh pair of eyes”_ the Treasury desperately needs for the report due to come out at the start of next quarter. He's not entirely sure how that happened, but he won't throw away the opportunity. Considering the alternatives are yet another round of arguing with impotent congresspeople who think the President's statements in a speech that will be heard by a dozen stoned freshman poli sci majors and a handful of people who sat on their remotes and accidentally turned on C-SPAN somehow doom the future of their insignificant flyover districts, or _worse,_ thinking about tonight, he's happy for the relatively mindless task.

Time passes more quickly when he’s hyper-focused on minutiae, he finds, and at six-thirty on the dot he closes his laptop. Von Steuben sticks his head in as Alexander’s pulling his coat on.

“Half an hour and I want you out,” the Chief of Staff says, then starts at the sight of Alexander stuffing his things into his bag. “Hamilton! I thought I’d have to get security carry you out.”

“Not tonight,” Alexander grins brightly. “Hot date.”

John muffles a slightly hysterical snort. He knows Alexander’s proclivities--they roomed through college and grad school--but doesn’t share them, and is perfectly happy not knowing who Alexander _does_ share them with. Alexander is grateful; he doesn’t think he could stand John knowing about Jefferson. Just the thought of John’s disappointed face makes his stomach churn.

“Well then. Laurens, I trust you’ll be leaving soon as well?”

“Sure,” John says, waving a hand. “Just gotta finish this one thing.”

“Out by seven, remember,” von Steuben says. John waves again.

“I bet it’s _killing_ him not asking about your date,” John says, once he’s gone.

“Especially knowing I’d _tell him._ ” Baron von Steuben had become something like a cross between Cool Uncle and Drill Sergeant for them when he was running Washington’s campaign, single handedly turning their floundering and disorganized campaign into a juggernaut just weeks before the Iowa Caucus. Despite the minor scandal that erupted when the new president installed a _foreign aristocrat_ as his Chief of Staff, von Steuben has proved invaluable in running the White House.

His parties are the stuff of _legend._ And the legends are mostly true.

\- - -

Alexander takes the bus back to his apartment. He jumps in the shower almost the second he makes it through the door, just long enough to rinse with the lavender bodywash he absolutely did _not_ buy because Jefferson likes it when he smells like a girl and run a bit of shampoo through his hair.

Early on in their arrangement, he’d skipped the trip home to shower and change after being stuck in the office later than he’d expected. The memory of Jefferson’s lip curling in disgust at the sight of him, his refusal to soil his toys or his hands with Alexander’s filth, still lingers. As does the memory of Jefferson ordering him to kneel out of the way while he worked over a pretty, tattooed blonde, and Alexander _obeying_ while jealousy and loathing curdled in his gut, and then two weeks later he turned up clean and desperate and damn near begging Jefferson to take him back.

He would blame it on the club’s atmosphere fucking with his head if he weren’t self-aware enough to know it’s entirely the effect Jefferson has on him, the loathsome personality and practiced dominance dovetailing perfectly with Alexander’s adrenaline addiction and penchant for self-destruction (and, yes, his mile-wide submissive streak). And now, eight months later, they have something of a _standing arrangement,_ and Alexander is towel-drying his hair and picking clothes based on Jefferson’s preferences. Black jeans and a dark purple silk button-down that gapes open at the neck and was, actually, a Christmas present, because Jefferson claimed that being seen with his unkempt ass at the club was ruining his reputation.

Alexander still isn’t sure if that was true, or if Jefferson was just trying to downplay the fact that he’d actually bought him a gift.

\- - -

The Battery is a drab warehouse tucked in the middle of a labyrinthine office park. It's nondescript enough to draw no attention even from people who work in the area, it's hidden enough to be difficult to find even if you know what you're looking for, and it's nice enough that the people and cars that frequent it aren't blatantly out of place.

It also requires three references, a yearly membership fee, and approximately the same amount of paperwork as requesting maintenance to fix the wonky leg on his desk. Alexander loves it and loathes it in about equal measure, missing the more casual (if sketchier) clubs he frequented back in New York. But discretion is required from him now, and although the existence of the Battery is the worst kept secret in D.C., exactly zero names have leaked from it in the twelve years it’s operated.

The bus drops him off at the very edge of the office park, forcing him to walk about three and a half blocks to the entrance of the club. He grips the handles of his backpack awkwardly. He’s never really managed to get over the feeling that everyone can tell what’s in there. Tonight, it’s just his blanket and a couple bottles of water, but even that feels damning.

Jefferson’s car isn’t in the parking lot. He checks his watch--five after eight. He swallows around the sudden thought that _maybe he was here and left._

The bouncer takes his I.D. and membership card. He signs the waiver without reading it and makes a beeline for the bar, catching a glimpse of familiar dark hair over a blue corset.

“Eliza.”

She turns around and grins. “Alex! Lovely, I was hoping to see you. Have you met Maria?” She drapes an arm around the woman next to her, a beauty in a bright red ruched dress. Alexander offers a hand and she shakes it, smiling nervously. “Maria’s new,” Eliza continues, fairly unnecessarily. “We met at a benefit last month and let me tell you, it was a nightmare getting her approved. Franklin needs to loosen up.”

Alexander very much doubts that will ever happen, but he nods anyway. “Nice to meet you. So you are…”

“Switch, like me.” Eliza grins. “We’re observing tonight. You planning on giving us a show?”

“Yeah. I mean. If Thomas hasn’t already left?”

“I haven’t seen him.”

That doesn’t necessarily mean he hasn't already come and gone, but it does make Alexander feel slightly better. Still, he waves down the bartender and orders a rum and coke. Just for his nerves. Eliza raises an eyebrow but doesn’t ask; Alexander knows she knows how Jefferson feels about alcohol and play, but he’s been on edge all day and now he's _shaking_ with it.

“Are you sure you're alright?” Eliza asks. She places her silver-manicured hand on his, and her tone is genuinely concerned. Alexander adores her. And not just because her sister Angelica works in legislative affairs with Jefferson. Eliza’s a D.C. social worker, making her one of the few decent people who frequent the club, and she was Alexander's third reference when he was trying to gain admittance himself. If he hadn't run into Jefferson's infuriating smirk within five seconds of walking in that first night, he probably would have found himself at her mercy.

A hand catches his wrist before he can bring the glass to his lips. “I hope that’s just soda,” a familiar voice buzzes near his ear. He shudders, full-body, and drops it, tilting his chin up just a little.

“Thomas.”

“Alexander. Breaking my rules already?”

“Maybe.”

Jefferson sighs. He unslings the duffel bag from around his shoulders and drops it at Alexander’s feet. “I guess _earlier_ wasn’t enough to fix your attitude,” he says mockingly. “See I have my work cut out tonight.” Jefferson scans the room briefly, then points to a cross in the corner. “Go.”

Alexander shoots Eliza an apologetic look. She just smiles and makes a little shooing motion; beside her, Maria shifts and looks deeply interested. Jefferson clears his throat.

“Alexander.”

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” Alexander mutters, grabbing his backpack and Jefferson’s duffel and makes his way across the floor. Glowing lines on the tile floor mark out a safe path, assuming the rules about whip length are actually followed, and he stays carefully between them. It’s early enough that most of the furniture is vacant; often, people will mingle and socialize rather than play right away, particularly if they don’t have a partner. Jefferson likes to play early, both for choice of equipment and for the audience.

The Battery is relatively plain; tile floors, deep red drywall, dim lighting, and a sound system that’s either annoyingly loud or deafening depending on who’s supplying the music. (There’s no DJ. There are two iPods, and the only real difference between them is the compiler’s taste in NIN songs.) The left side of the room is the play space, the right side is a social and viewing space, and the bar divides the room about halfway down. The furniture is a somewhat haphazard collection of crosses, benches, tables, and repurposed exercise fads, and there are three suspension points near the back. The cross Jefferson picked out is his favorite--far enough away from the onlookers that he’s not distracted, but positioned to demand attention.

Alexander isn’t exactly thrilled about leaving Eliza with Jefferson, but she can handle herself. He watches them out of the corner of his eye as he unpacks their bags. Jefferson’s shaking Maria’s hand now, and she’s covering her mouth with the other one, clearly fighting back laughter. Alexander hopes it’s at Jefferson’s expense. From the way Eliza’s beaming at her, it probably is.

Jefferson turns back to look at him and he ducks his head, returning his attention to setting out Jefferson’s toys. Sometimes he’s told to arrange by preference, or by type, or by some other metric, and sometimes he isn’t told but does it on his own. Sometimes he attempts to hide toys. That never works out well (except it does, in the end). Tonight, though, he doesn’t particularly care. He’s so wound up that whatever Jefferson has in mind will be more than good.

“Quit making a mess and stand up.”

Alexander drops the slightly tangled pair of floggers and stands, peering up at Jefferson. He seems to glow, standing in front of one of the few lights in the dim club. His hair looks edged in fire.

“Clothes off,” Jefferson says, carelessly enough that Alexander’s cheeks burn as he slowly unbuttons his shirt. Alexander has always been a bit of an exhibitionist, feeding off the energy of an audience, but the dismissive way Jefferson watches him undress is _different._ Not necessarily in a bad way; or at least, not according to Alexander’s dick.

Jefferson continues to watch him with cool disregard, asking for his hands and fastening their leather cuffs over his wrists with the same attention he’d pay an unattractive waitress, and Alexander is shaking uncontrollably by the time the cuffs are hooked to the points at the top of the cross. It’s a bit of a stretch for him, but he doesn’t mind--he enjoys the slight pull, the present reminder that he’s bound.

He breathes slowly, trying to calm his racing heart as he waits for Jefferson to start. Waits for the first strike against his back, the shock and the burn and the _need_ coursing through his skin.

It doesn’t come.

He tries to twist around, to see what Jefferson’s doing. A hand grips his hair and shoves his head back. “Face forward,” Jefferson growls in his ear. Alexander bites back a whine. “I don’t feel like blindfolding you, so you’re going to have to show some self control. Understand?”

Alexander nods. The hand in his hair tightens and he gasps. “Yes, sir,” he chokes out. Jefferson laughs and releases him, letting him slump a little against the cross. Alexander strains to hear Jefferson moving behind him, but Jefferson gives nothing away. He can barely hear him over the din of the room, much less hear enough to guess what Jefferson’s picking out from his bag.

He tries to be patient. He can hear his blood pounding in his head, a roaring in his ears that drowns out the opening bars of Depeche Mode’s _Stripped_ and overwhelms him.

It must be a few minutes now that he's been waiting. He hopes it has been. He hopes that when he finally ducks his head, presses his chin to his chest and _whines_ , that it hasn't taken mere seconds to break him.

Still, nothing happens.

“Please,” he begs, softly. “Thomas, I can’t--” A noise very much like a sob tears its way out of his throat. “Do something, please, sir, I need--”

And then his back is on _fire,_ Jefferson landing rapid, heavy blows, over and over again and Alexander can’t _breathe,_ can't process the strikes and brace for the next one. His feet slip out from under him and he hangs in the cuffs, and he's distantly aware he's probably screaming.

It takes a few seconds after Jefferson stops for Alexander to get his breath back, to tell the difference between the hits and the throbbing echo. His skin feels tight, and oxygen stings his throat as he desperately swallows, dragging himself back to his feet and slumping, exhausted, against the cross.

Jefferson grabs his hair, yanking him back, and drags his nails down Alexander’s back. He wonders, a little hysterically, if he’s bleeding, _blood’s not allowed,_ Jefferson doesn’t care--He  yells, thrashes, bites at his own lip, his hands clenching and unclenching above his head. Jefferson delivers a few stinging swats to Alexander’s ass. “Good, fuck. So pretty like this.” Alexander whimpers at the words, pushes his ass against Jefferson’s hand.

“No,” Jefferson says, and steps back again.

This time, Alexander begs right away, catching on to Jefferson’s game.

This time, he’s rewarded with a thin cane against his thighs.

This time, he’s beyond screaming.

\- - -

“Alexander?”

He blinks. They’re not on the main floor anymore. They’re in one of the back rooms, he realizes. On a couch. His blanket is wrapped around him. Jefferson’s chest is solid against Alexander’s cheek, and he’s playing with his hair. There was a question. He can’t remember.

“Hi,” he manages.

“How are you feeling?”

How is he feeling? He’s not sure. He waves a hand vaguely, and nods against Jefferson’s chest. Distantly, he can feel his back and ass and legs throbbing. It feels nice, soothing, and while part of him is aware it’s going to be completely miserable in the morning, for right now he’s more than content. He shifts and wraps his arm around Jefferson’s middle, burrowing into his warmth. This is nice, he thinks. It’s always nice. Jefferson takes such good care of him.

“Thomas?” he manages. There’s something, pushing at his head.

Something important. Something--

“I love you.”

The hand in his hair stills. The body beneath him freezes. Alexander replays the last few seconds over in his head, and the realization hits him like a bucket of ice water.

 

_Oh, fuck._


	2. Chapter 2

Jefferson leaves the room to let Alexander dress in private. He struggles not to take it as a rejection. It’s always been part of their routine, Jefferson leaving for this part, as though he thinks watching Alexander covering up his new collection of welts is more intimate than putting them on him in the first place. But after his ( _s_ _tupid, stupid_ ) confession, he’s feeling a little more sensitive.

He folds his blanket and shoves it into his backpack, gulps down about half of one of the water bottles, and rummages around the front pocket for a hair tie. He manages to come up with a baby blue scrunchie he’s pretty sure he accidentally stole from Eliza and sighs. Good enough. At least his hair will be out of his face.

Making his way across the floor to the tables is a minor adventure, thanks to a wrestling match that’s spilling over onto the pathways. He’s narrowly pulled out of the line of fire by an irate dungeon monitor, trips over his own feet, and winds up half collapsed in her arms.

“You okay?” she asks. Alexander blinks at her, searching for her name-- _Dolley,_ that’s it--and adjusts the straps of his backpack.

“Yeah. Little dazed,” he says. Dolley grins.

“I saw. You’re very impressive.” Alexander desperately hopes he’s not blushing as hard as he thinks he is. Dolley’s gorgeous, with deep-set black eyes and sharp cheekbones brushed in glittering gold blush. She has a wide red bow in her short hair, and she’s wearing the yellow-trimmed black leather DM vest over jeans and a ruffled gold shirt. She’s a congressional aide, he thinks, or something equally vague on the Hill, and she has a boyfriend who is ostensibly _not_ in the Lifestyle, and she teaches bimonthly safety and negotiation classes. Her approval is a bright, shining boost to his ego.

So, really, it’s not surprising it takes Alexander a second to realize she’s still talking.

“The green table has crackers and fruit,” she’s saying. “Sorry, I have to take care of--” Dolley waves her hand vaguely and runs over to the wrestlers, who are now dangerously close to a guy flicking a signal whip. “ _Back--_ ” She sticks her foot in front of them, letting them roll into her _instead_ of Whip Guy, and nudges them backwards, bending down to whisper furiously at them.

Alexander shakes his head. Food. She mentioned food, and Alexander--who realizes he hasn’t eaten anything since the mid-afternoon Reuben--is _starving._

As it turns out, the green table doesn’t just have crackers and fruit; it also has assorted meats and cheeses, and next to it, the purple table has an array of cookies. He grabs a plate, and then another plate, and carefully balances his two tiny food mountains on his forearms. He scans the tables--Jefferson he spots right away, talking animatedly in a group of about a half-dozen people. He always tends to crave admiration after playing, and sometimes Alexander is happy to join him, to be his trophy, but right now…

Over on the far side of the room, he spots Eliza sitting alone, staring with some concentration out onto the floor. He readjusts his grip on his plates and heads across the seating area.

“Hi.”

Eliza looks up and grins. “Hi yourself. You were beautiful.”

Alexander shrugs. He loves the compliments from everyone else--it’s one of his favorite parts of exhibitionism--but from her, he always feels a little awkward. “It was all Thomas.”

“Nonsense. Come, sit down. You’ll want to watch this.” She nods at one of the suspension points, where Maria is stretching, stripped down to pink cotton boyshorts. Her bag is half open and he catches a glimpse of a few bundles of rope.

“Self-suspension?”

“She’s amazing,” Eliza confirms. Alexander grins and drops (a little too hard--he winces) into the chair next to her and rests his head on her shoulder. She brings her hand up automatically to stroke his hair. “Feeling okay?”

“Mm,” he says. Her hand stops.

“Alex.”

He hates that voice. He also hates that she barely has to do anything to make him spill his soul. “I may have done something stupid,” he says. Maria is wrapping her ropes around her chest, the tan jute standing in striking contrast to her skin, and Alexander hopes she’s distracting enough that Eliza won’t push him.

“What’d you do, sweetie?”

He sighs. “Told Thomas I love him.”

Silence. He _hates_ silence. He hates the waiting, hates not knowing what reaction he’s going to get, and _god,_ if this is how Eliza’s reacting-- “And do you?”

“Really don’t know.”

She seems to accept that, at least, and steals a couple grapes from his plate. He lets her. He’s always been more partial to strawberries, anyway.

He isn’t normally this clingy after playing—after Jefferson’s brought him back to the world—and it gnaws at him. It tells him to stop inconveniencing Eliza, that she’s trying to watch her girlfriend, that he should just—

  
She digs her nails into his scalp, tugging at his hair just enough to hit that sweet spot, and he melts against her side. _Anyone else_ , he tells himself, anyone else but her and he'd knock them right on their ass and out the door. He would. (He ignores that it’s actually happened and he… _didn't_ . He’d frozen, and he'd had to be rescued by Dolley, and now eight months later he might be _pining_ over the unbelievable asshole with truly awful hair, really, and he’s almost disgusted with himself.)

“Watch,” she whispers. Alexander blinks and re-focuses on the floor. Maria has completed a series of intricate ties around her legs. The long ends of her ropes are fed through the large wooden hoop attached to her hard point. Alexander watches her tug on them, tie them off at her thighs and hips and chest, and she’s off the ground. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted in a sigh, her dark hair brushing the floor.

“Amazing,” he says. He can feel Eliza grinning. He is struck. It stops his breath for a second. Eliza loves her. He can’t see her face, his own still pressed against her shoulder, but he can imagine the light in her eyes, the smile she can’t and won’t contain, and he wonders.

_What do I look like when I look at Thomas?_

_What does he look like when he looks at me?_

He shakes his head. He’s still floating. He can’t trust his brain right now. It’s a little scary--it always is, this temporary insanity--but it’s also _clarifying_ and _focusing,_ a mental and emotional eraser that keeps him from overloading.

Maria is upside-down, her back arched gracefully, and she reaches her one free arm to the floor and spins herself. Alexander is so entranced he doesn’t notice being sneaked up on.

“Alexander.” Jefferson’s hair brushes his cheek. “Time to get you home.”

A tiny whine escapes him, and Alexander cringes. He doesn’t want to leave. He _especially_ doesn’t want to leave with Jefferson, doesn’t want to be trapped in his car and face either an awkward conversation or an even more awkward silence. For a moment, he considers asking if Eliza can drive him home ( _ask who?_ ) but he doesn’t want to intrude on her night out with Maria. He doesn’t want to hear Jefferson tell him _no._

And anyway, he knows Jefferson doesn’t only drive him home because the buses at this time of night tend to be sketchy at best. Jefferson puts up with his weird neediness and touch-cravings after they play; that all Jefferson requires in return is to drive Alexander home is, honestly, the very least he can ask.

“Come on,” Jefferson says with more force, his hand tightening on Alexander’s shoulder. Alexander sighs, doing his very best to look as put-out as possible, and turns to Eliza.

“Have a _good night_ ,” he says, winking.

She laughs and kisses his cheek fondly. “You as well. And if you--You have my number.”

Alexander nods, trying to make it seem casual, like there’s no _specific_ reason Eliza thinks he’d have to call her, and grabs his backpack. Jefferson stands over him with one eyebrow raised. Alexander ignores him.

Jefferson leads the way out to the parking lot. Alexander hesitates briefly at the door of Franklin’s office, wondering if he should say hello, but the room is dark, and Jefferson is huffing impatiently. He decides he’ll send an email later, though he knows he’ll probably forget, and well. He’s not sure what he wants in the first place, or where the sudden desire to see him came from.

He decides to put it aside, for now. Jefferson is holding the door open and looking increasingly irritated.

“Sorry, sorry,” Alexander mutters with as little sincerity as possible. Jefferson’s parked at the far end of the first row, angled slightly so his car will (theoretically) not be dinged, and Alexander grimaces. The Jaguar XF cost about as much as Alexander’s student loans (he knows, he’s checked) and, in a stroke of truly _appalling_ taste, Jefferson got it in a brown color that’s probably supposed to be _coffee_ or _copper_ but mostly just looks like _shit,_ and to top it all off, Alexander has to slide into a beige interior that he’s amazed wasn’t picked out by a 62-year-old white CPA.

And yes, Alexander has never owned a car, and has never really had cause to give it any thought, and doesn’t even have a driver’s license. But he has _taste,_ of the kind Southern trust fund babies seem to be born without. A fact that becomes more and more apparent the longer he spends in D.C.

He presses his face against the cold window and closes his eyes. It’s a short drive to his place, but being alone in a confined space with Jefferson is… Discomfiting. Enough that he mostly just wants to play dead and hope Jefferson buys it.

Whether he does or not, Alexander ultimately isn’t sure. He doesn’t talk, which is a striking relief, and he keeps the radio off, and Alexander opens his eyes a sliver to watch his breath fog the window.

“Alexander,” Jefferson says, just before shifting the car into park. One thing about it, Alexander thinks grudgingly, is that the ride _is_ entirely smooth. Although, considering he’s spent his entire life on public transit or in the back of friends’ junkers, he doesn’t have much to compare it to. He peels his face from the window. There’s a little imprint of his cheek and chin on the glass. A little bit of pride flares through him. He grabs his backpack off the floor and climbs out without saying a word, without looking at Jefferson.

He’s barely on the curb when Jefferson drives away.

He doesn’t bother looking after him, either. Just slings his backpack over his left shoulder and fumbles for his keys with his right hand. His building, all things considered, isn’t that bad. It looks a little run down from the outside, sure, but inside, his little first floor two-bedroom is clean and warm and also heads and shoulders above anything he can afford on his own.

There’s a pizza box on the table when he walks in, and a sticky from his roommate-- _Alex, help yourself._ He takes a peek under the lid and finds a beautiful New York-style pizza, absolutely _shining,_ and he wonders where Herc managed to find it in a city full of obscenely expensive self-aware food and questionable diners and not much in between.

(He misses New York. Nearly every day, he finds himself questioning his decision to leave.)

Still, he shouldn’t be surprised. Hercules Mulligan has a knack for this kind of thing. He works for some agency that’s “not important” doing something “really boring” and masterfully changes the subject any time Alexander comes remotely close to asking. The only things Alexander really knows about him are that he, like Alexander, doesn’t come from much, and that he has a thing for fashion. He tried to turn Alexander into a respectable-looking government employee, which failed spectacularly. Effort or no, Alexander has a talent for making even the nicest suit look off-the-rack and slept in.

Whatever it is Herc does pays well enough for him to afford this place on his own, and he knows Herc is massively undercharging him, but considering he’d been living in his office for almost a month when they met, he didn’t question it. Raising the issue now, he thinks, would be more awkward than it’s worth.

He takes a huge bite of cheese and pepperoni and dribbles sauce down the front of his pants.

_Definitely_ more than it’s worth.

\-  -  -

The alarm clock lands on the floor with a _thud_ and nearly takes the entire outlet cover with it. It lays there, distressingly out of Alexander’s reach, while it continues to beep. Alexander glares at it. The beeping continues mockingly, and he tries to bury his face in his pillow.

Which, of course, does nothing, and Alexander knows he has to get up eventually. Work. He has to go to work. Because it’s _Friday,_ because for some godawful reason the Battery’s most popular night is _Thursday,_ because he never seems to learn that playing when he has to work the next morning is a _terrible_ idea.

He gets up anyway. He’s too stubborn to call in sick.

\-  -  -

It’s 7:42 by the time Alexander makes it through security (there’s a bit of a jam, courtesy of an issue with the new White House reporter’s credentials, and it takes some effort to get Dan’s attention to wave him through). He’s wearing his dark blue shirt today, in hopes that it’ll hide the bruised mess of his back, and his black suit. He thinks he has a tie in his office somewhere; he couldn’t find one in his closet and is pretty sure they’ve all collected in his desk drawer.

He’s also in a bit of a mood. The bus ride was definitely bumpier than usual, and while his ass is just barely pink, his thighs are striped and welted and he had to bite the inside of his mouth the entire way to keep from whimpering. Normally, he doesn’t mind--he likes the reminders, considers them trophies, evidence of what he took and what he can take. And if some tiny part of him thrills at them as _marks of ownership,_ Jefferson never needs to know.

Jefferson.

Alexander wonders if it’s too much to hope that he won’t see the man today. He thinks about it, spending all day in his office, and yet--

The thought of _not_ seeing Jefferson makes him feel oddly queasy and off-balance, like being away from him is making Alexander _sick._ He’s disgusted with himself, furious, and it’s in that mood that he walks into John Laurens.

“Look, it’s not that hard, I just--Alex?”

Alexander straightens up, trying his best to look like a normal person. Who didn’t just trip over his best friend. “Hey, sorry. Uh.” He looks at John, then looks at the girl next to him. “What’s going on?”

“No,” the girl says, and takes advantage of the distraction of Alexander’s arrival to vanish around the corner.

John runs his fingers through his messy curls. “Damn.”

“John?” 

“I was trying to get her to deliver this to Senator Schuyler,” he says, holding up a packet of three overstuffed manila envelopes.

“And you needed one of the communications interns because…”

 “I may have slept with the only available messenger. And not called him back. And he might hate me a little.” John gives Alexander a truly pathetic look. “If Lee wasn’t still holding a grudge…”

Alexander snorts. Senator Charles Lee’s grudges are legendary, and none are more spectacular than the one he holds against John Laurens. John had been seventeen, working as an aide for his father (one Senator Henry Laurens, R-SC, and John will be the first to tell anyone the relation has hurt his own career far more than it’s helped) and well. 

Punching someone out on the floor of the Senate is a good way to get banned from Capitol Hill for life. John’s father hadn’t bothered fighting it, and while President Washington has promised to get the ban lifted, since Henry Laurens disowned John, the situation has become more of a family drama than the President’s willing to get involved in.

Which has resulted in John browbeating interns into going for him when the messengers aren’t available (and apparently making things harder on himself by having one night stands with them).

“I’ll go,” Alexander says.

“What?” John’s in their office already, his voice muffled behind the thick wall. “Seriously?”

Alexander follows him inside and drops his bag on his chair. “Sure. Let me borrow your bike, though, I don’t want to have to explain vanishing for the better part of three hours.”

John nods and fishes the key to his bike lock out of his pocket. “Hey, look, if you ever--”

“Don’t mention it,” Alexander says. He unbuttons his blazer and dumps it on the desk as well; it’s not a particularly cold March day, and he knows he’ll be a sweaty mess by the time he gets back if he takes the jacket with him.

Granted, he’ll probably be a mess anyway, and when he turns he’s reminded of the stripes on his thighs. Hopefully they won’t rub too much, and he won’t have his legs pressed against the seat anyway, and _Christ,_ this was a bad idea. But he felt the overwhelming weight of last night’s words the second he walked into the White House with Jefferson’s marks all over him, and he’s still not sure whether seeing Jefferson or _not_ seeing Jefferson would be worse, so really, an hour or so to put off dealing with the whole mess is entirely too appealing.

He finds John’s bike easily; it’s an olive-green street bike, with wire baskets on the front and the back and a few bungee cords wrapped around the seat stalk for securing items in the baskets. It also has a bell, which John uses the way one would use a car horn, and is typically accompanied by violent swearing and rude gestures. It’s a miracle no videos of John’s bicycle road rage have wound up on CNN yet.

Alexander rolls his sleeves to his elbows and secures the packets in the front basket of John’s bike. He realizes, belatedly, that he never asked what’s in there. Inconsequential, probably, but he should have at least _asked._

Nevermind that. He buckles John’s helmet and sets off from the White House. There’s still morning traffic, which means it’ll take longer than usual to make it to Capitol Hill, but he doesn’t mind. He misses having a bike. He had one in New York, before he sold it to finance the (at the time, ridiculous) decision to drop out of law school and join Washington’s campaign. John had been temporarily broke at the time as well, having just been disowned, but called in a couple favors to get control of his bank accounts back. Hence his current ability to afford his own place in D.C. on a junior speechwriter’s salary.

Alexander, meanwhile, lived off whatever food happened to be brought in by the other volunteers, and slept on the floor of campaign offices, and eventually he and John managed to impress Washington enough to be hired on as paid writing staff. After that, the campaign paid for hotel rooms. Their first night in a cramped, musty double, John had made an offhand comment about _when we’re better funded,_ and Alexander had made a similar comment about _haven’t had a bed in weeks,_ and they both went to sleep with a heavy silence hanging over them.

They never mentioned it again.

He thinks about John’s bike. It looks like the kind of thing you’d find on Craigslist for under $100. Alexander knows it’s not, knows it’s some high-end “vintage” brand, but has never commented. He thinks about the bike, about Jefferson’s car, about his own bus pass. He thinks about the marks on his back. He watches a line of town cars with diplomatic plates turn left.

He’s still in a bit of a daze when he reaches Capitol Hill. Every step to the front doors of the Capitol chafes, the welts on his leg rubbing painfully against his slacks. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the glass door, and grimaces at his hair--strands have yanked free from his ponytail by the helmet and are standing up in odd directions. He holds the packet of envelopes between his thighs and re-ties his hair while a security guard looks less than impressed.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, as the guard checks his I.D. and waves him through.

\-  -  - 

He desperately hopes that upon reaching Schuyler’s office he’s told the Senator’s in a meeting, and that all he has to do is smile at the secretary and push the packet under the office door. The Senator doesn’t dislike him, but, considering Alexander’s friendships with two of his daughters, he’s always found it better to be safe than sorry and avoid the man as much as possible.

Also, Philip Schuyler is intimidating, and not remotely in a good way.

Unfortunately, luck isn’t on his side, and he finds himself face to face with the man himself just seconds upon arriving at his door.

“Hamilton!” Schuyler greets him with a wide smile and claps a hand on his shoulder. Alexander tries not to wince and mostly succeeds. “How are you, son?”

He grits his teeth at the familiarity. “Fine,” he answers shortly. Yes, Schuyler doesn’t dislike him. It'd almost be easier if he did. “I’m on an errand from John Laurens,” he adds quickly, hoping to get the visit over with. “He sent me with this.”

“I do hope the President can get his ban lifted soon,” Schuyler says, taking the packet of envelopes. “Do tell him if I can be of any help…”

“I will, sir.”

Schuyler sighs. “I know, I know. You’re busy and I shouldn’t keep you.”

“Sir--”

“You and Eliza seemed so taken with each other last year,” Schuyler says. Alexander shrugs, trying not to appear taken aback by the abrupt change in topic, or irritated with what the Senator has chosen to discuss. The last thing he wants to remember is that night, gate-crashing the Senate’s inaugural ball with John (after, granted, more than a few cocktails at the junior staff party), meeting Angelica, meeting _Eliza,_ and god, Eliza’s hand on his wrist--

And then, several months into their friendship, walking into the Battery for the first time with her help and seeing _Jefferson_.

He feels sick just thinking about it. 

“Yes, sir,” Alexander says, edging on desperate now. “I apologize, I wish I could stay, but--I have a meeting--”

“Of course,” Schuyler says, and Alexander thinks he might be about to say something else, but he doesn’t give the Senator the chance. He’s halfway down the hall before he thinks he might have been a little rude, and hits the stairs before he decides he doesn’t care.

He’s incredibly lucky in that he doesn’t really run into anyone else on his way out, except a few interns and pages.

Honestly, he thinks, it could have gone worse.

\-  -  -

Alexander returns to the White House with an odd, renewed sense of clarity. He also feels slightly disgusting from biking to the Hill and back, but he doesn’t care. He hastily locks John’s bike, waves to the Secret Service agents, and nearly runs inside.

He winds up at the door to Jefferson’s office without, honestly, thinking about what he’s doing. Stupid, he knows this is stupid, but his back is killing him and his thighs are stinging and his head is spinning. He turned down _Eliza._ He turned down _Eliza_ for _Jefferson._ And worse, he’s never really felt like it was a mistake.

The doorknob is cold under his sweaty fingers, and the door is unlocked, so Alexander doesn’t bother knocking.

“We need to talk,” he says breathlessly, stumbling inside and letting the door shut behind him. Jefferson looks up from his computer. His face is blank.

“Alexander.”

“Look, what I said at the--”

“It’s okay.”

Alexander is momentarily stunned. “It’s--”

“You were still in subspace. People say all kinds of dumb shit when they’re floating. I’m not holding it against you.” It sounds like a lie.

“No, no, you don’t--” Alexander pulls the tie loose from his hair and runs his fingers through the sweat-damp strands. “I wasn’t--I think I meant it.”

_Fuck._ The silence after that is deafening. Alex’s heart is pounding rapidly, he can _feel_ it, it _hurts,_ he can’t _believe--_

Jefferson stands up. He adjusts his sleeves. His cufflinks glitter. His shoes click against the wood floor as he comes to stand over Alexander, a breath away, staring down at him. Alexander’s forced to look up, and his neck aches from the strain. Jefferson wrinkles his nose.

“Go clean yourself up,” he says.

“What?”

“Go. Clean. Yourself. Up.”

“And then--what then?”

“And then nothing.”

Alexander is suddenly furious. “You didn’t hear me? I said--”

“I heard you.”

“ _I love you._ Thomas--”

Jefferson’s eyes narrow. He takes a step back, then another, and Alexander follows. He moves to the side. Opens the door. Grabs Alexander by the front of his shirt.

He doesn’t say anything as he pushes Alexander into the hallway and shuts the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... So, this is ending up longer than I planned, hence the "2/?". Also I'm a really slow writer. Sorry about that.
> 
> Bonus material for this chapter!
> 
> [Thomas Jefferson's Car](http://junes-discotheque.tumblr.com/post/139152138302/junes-discotheque-today-in-ultra-productive)  
> and!  
> [John Laurens' Bike](http://www.sfbike.org/images/actions/cyclerecycle/basket_bike.jpg)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god you guys I'm so sorry this took forever.
> 
> there's actually quite a bit more ground i wanted to cover in this chapter, and it's fairly short (i know i know i don't update for a month and then finally get around with a short chapter) but tbh i've been kind of stressing myself out with 'oh my god why don't u update' and also the rest of the stuff is a little... unwieldy. so.
> 
> yeah. here it is. finally. thank you so much if you're still with me.

On the first night of his membership, Alexander arrived at the Battery half an hour before the party was scheduled to begin. He had spent an hour dumping half his closet on his bedroom floor before finally deciding on tight blue jeans and a black t-shirt, assuming the most basic default would suffice until he could figure out the club’s dress code, and after debating with himself nearly all day, had decided to leave his bag at home. His phone (with hot pink wallet case) and keys barely fit in the pockets of his jeans, but ultimately, it was probably a better look than showing up to a new club with an _expectation_.

The paperwork he’d read and signed under Franklin’s careful watch at brunch the previous Saturday was tucked into a plain black folder, except for the personal information page Franklin had taken to issue his I.D. card. Part of him felt the entire process was ridiculous and unnecessary, but mostly, he was surprised to find it barely fazed him at all--he’d only been in D.C. for a few months, but already it felt like he had been navigating the strange bureaucracy treated as local sport his entire life.

And, as much as he missed New York’s casual, open-invite dungeons, he had to be glad for the Battery’s neurotically careful discretion. Not for himself--he was a low-tier speechwriter and he’d always felt he could weather a scandal--but for Washington, for the administration, for the entire goddamn Democratic Party.

Regardless, he hadn’t been able to shake the thought that if he really cared about all that, he wouldn’t be seeking out a club in the first place. He’d engage in activities behind closed doors, where no one could see him and no one would know. His flirtation with Eliza would stop being mere flirtation, and he’d be happy and content and have no need to take stupid, insane risks like joining the Battery and hoping Franklin’s reputation held.

He’d tried. He’d tried to feel more in Eliza’s nails against his wrist and her quiet, casual commands. He’d seen it in her eyes, too. She felt a connection. For weeks, Alexander had wondered if it was him, if he was somehow defective, unable to respond to everything he should want, everything he _had_ wanted, sitting in front of him and waiting for him to jump. And he couldn’t. Every time he thought about asking her back to his place he felt a cold panic, and inviting himself back to _hers_ was even worse. He’d never--It was always dungeons, back in New York, a few standing dates and a few _well, if we’re both here,_ and one or two people he might have called _relationships_ if they ever had a conversation that wasn’t shouted over shitty Nu Metal and the cracking of bullwhips.

He thought, maybe, if they could meet under the circumstances he was accustomed to, he might feel that spark, that _need,_ that _pull,_ and then he and Eliza could step away and live that quiet little ideal life away from prying eyes and the risk of scandal.

It was a nice thought.

Unfortunately, he also knew that his attraction to risk fulfilled a need that couldn’t be answered any other way. And so, frustrated, he'd asked Eliza to help him get a membership here. She hadn't really understood. Maybe she expected he would come around if he were in a more familiar environment. Maybe she knew he wouldn’t, but was willing to sponsor him anyway out of friendship and kindness he’d done nothing to deserve.

He'd _wanted_ to come around. As he sat at the bar and waited for his rum and coke, he glanced over the vacant floor tried to picture himself on any of the furniture, with Eliza standing behind him.

The image didn’t last long, as his brain squirmed uncomfortably away and refused to picture them like that again. It was easier to imagine them in a bedroom (not his, and he’d never seen hers), but as an abstraction more than a possibility.

His drink was set in front of him. He stirred it a little, just to hear the ice clink against the sides of the glass, before taking a sip.

If there was even half a shot in there, he’d be shocked.

He slid the bartender an extra dollar anyway and tried to look vaguely interested in watching a small group of twentysomethings playing a card game. One of them, a brunette in a floor-length black dress, had a chain leash strapped to her wrist. On the other end a girl wearing nothing but bike shorts and cat ears was kneeling at her feet. The brunette paused occasionally from tossing cards on the growing pile to run her fingers through her kitten’s pink hair.

“Hamilton.”

Alexander felt his heart stop. The familiar voice was like a bucket of ice over his skin, a vicious jolt of _oh fuck, oh fuck,_ and a reminder of exactly why he shouldn't be here. Should never have come here. Had ruined _everything_ because he was too damn selfish and--

He closed his eyes. Opened them slowly, counting to ten in his head, reminded himself that _we’re both here,_ and took a deep breath before turning around and offering his most brilliant smile.

“Jefferson,” he said. Thomas Jefferson, deputy director of legislative affairs, was leaning against the bar. Smirking. The sleeves of his bright purple dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, showing off his irritatingly well-formed forearms as well as an ostentatious rose gold Omega watch. He paused in drumming his fingers against the bar top to rub his thumb over his lips, and for a brief second, Alexander nearly touched his own.

He was dressed exactly like he was at work, Express look on a Brioni budget, which somehow made things infinitely worse. If he'd shown up in a leather chest harness and assless chaps--

Actually, no. _That_ was worse.

“First night here, I take it?” Jefferson said, with the air of a confused heiress greeting the new money trash who’d dared to wander into her country club. Alexander shrugged. “But not your first dungeon.” Another shrug, as Alexander did his best to appear unfazed and casual. Jefferson seemed oddly delighted. He straightened up and stared straight down at Alexander.

“What?” Alexander snapped, trying desperately not to squirm under the intensity of Jefferson's gaze.

“I knew it,” he responded. He lifted a hand and made as if to graze his fingers over Alexander's face, millimeters close but not touching. His thumb rubbed the air just in front of his lips. “Sub.”

Alexander didn’t bother masking his laugh, his head thrown back and his eyes nearly watering. “Seriously?”

Jefferson didn’t respond to that, just tucked his hand in his pocket and continued staring at him, one eyebrow barely quirked, as though he could wait all night for the exact reaction he wanted. And, Alexander realized, he probably would. _Screw that._

He grabbed his glass and made to down the entire thing for courage, but just before the glass could reach his lips, a hand stopped his wrist. Long fingers wrapped around his arm and Alexander was stunned, for a second, how _tiny_ he looked in Jefferson’s grip.

“No,” Jefferson said.

“Excuse me?”

“I won’t play if you’ve been drinking.”

Alexander gaped at him. “What--” He twisted his arm out of Jefferson’s hand and dropped the glass on the bar. He cleared his throat. “What on _earth_ makes you think--”

He blinked. He hadn’t even seen Jefferson move, but here he was, sliding easily in between Alexander’s thighs, peering down at him like something he wanted to crush. Jefferson reached out, slowly, and twirled a lock of Alexander’s hair around his finger.

Alexander breathed.

The room stopped.

\-  -  -

Alexander spends at least a solid minute staring at Jefferson’s closed office door, the wood grain swimming before his eyes. He’s not crying--which he vaguely recognizes as strange, because in this state, he thinks he probably should be. It’s an odd, distant feeling, like he’s actually five feet away, leaning against the coffee cart and judging himself. Gossiping with an intern-- _Look at Hamilton, pathetic--_ and giggling behind his hand.

He almost laughs at that. Ridiculous. Melodramatic, too, _self-absorbed_ and really, he has no idea why coming here was a good move. One of the first things he learned was _don’t make any big decisions or emotional pronouncements in the days after a scene,_ and for the most part, he thinks he’s done a decent job of following that rule. Except now. _Why now?_

His eyes are unfocused. He’s aware he’s still standing in front of Jefferson’s door. He should have moved--why hasn’t he moved--but his legs feel like concrete pillars and his feet feel bolted to the floor. He can’t look around to see if anyone’s watching him. Maybe everyone’s staring. Maybe nobody is. Maybe he’s not even here, maybe he’s at _home,_ where he should be, dealing with whatever mess is going on in his head, away from curious interns and bored staffers and a couple dozen NSA bugs.

(Not that he _really_ thinks the White House is bugged, but he wouldn’t put it past anyone. And if it is, it’s probably not the NSA. It’s probably the Republicans or a particularly gutsy blogger.)

Someone’s saying something, though--something important, he knows, but he can’t focus long enough to make out the words.

“Hamilton!” His name. That’s his name. He should respond, he thinks, but then a heavy hand is landing on his back in a solid _thump_ and he pitches forward, just barely managing to bite down on his lip and breathe through the shout that wants to escape. _Fuck,_ that hurt, and now he feels a little dizzy.

And a little warm, the tips of his fingers tingling not unpleasantly,

_The White House, you’re in the White House, and that’s not Jefferson._

“Hi,” he chokes out. Blinks against the haze in his eyes. He’s still processing, still trying to get the pounding in his head under control enough to _focus._

“Hamilton?” The effusive tone has changed. Concern. “Are you quite well?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m--” He looks aside. Baron von Steuben is watching him with a deeply troubled expression on his face. It deepens the lines on his face and makes him look decades older. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Was it something Jefferson said?” von Steuben asks, and for a split second Alexander worries--but they’re in front of his door, of course von Steuben wouldn’t think it was a _social_ visit, and given Jefferson’s reputation…

Alexander forces a laugh. “No, no, nothing like that. It’s--” He looks at the door again. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

The Chief of Staff doesn’t look convinced, but he at least lets the matter drop. He pats Alexander on the back (thankfully not nearly as hard as before) and offers him what is probably supposed to be a reassuring smile. “Walk with me.”

“I--okay,” Alexander says. He wants to protest being dragged away like this, but von Steuben is already walking away, and he doesn’t have a good excuse for why he’d rather stay here and stare at Jefferson’s closed door. His rather _pointedly_ closed door, Alexander thinks, and he wonders if it looks that way to anyone else. He’s almost afraid it does.

He has to half-jog a few steps to catch up with von Steuben’s longer stride, and as he’s torn away from whatever spell the proximity to Jefferson’s office cast over him, it strikes him--he’s been rejected. There’s a slow, sick churning in his stomach. _Rejection._ He turns the word over and over in his head, examining it, attempting to feel _something_ other than nausea. He’s so preoccupied he doesn’t notice when von Steuben starts talking, and it takes another few moments for his brain to catch up with the Baron’s words.

“--very impressed, my boy.”

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks, mentally kicking himself.

Von Steuben doesn’t seem to mind his inattention. “I was saying we read your speech for the dinner honoring the new Secretary of the Interior,” he says. Alexander wonders if that’s the royal _‘we’_ or if he’s including President Washington; it’s probably the former, given von Steuben’s typical fondness for referring to himself in the plural and the unlikelihood he handed _President Washington_ a first draft of Alexander’s work. But--

 _Wait._ “Secretary of the Interior?”

Von Steuben raises an eyebrow while Alexander frantically runs through the last few weeks of speeches in his head, trying to remember-- _Oh._ The fisheries thing, that apparently isn’t a fisheries thing. Right. He feels himself flushing bright red-- _shit,_ he knew he should have actually gone to that meeting, and now he’s screwed up so badly the President’s Chief of Staff has had to track him down and reprimand him in the hallway.

“I’m sorry,” Alexander blurts out, cringing at his own voice. “I can do better, I swear, I’ve just been--distracted--” _poor excuse--_ “I can rewrite it, have it done by Monday--I’ll stay here all weekend, if necessary, just--”

Von Steuben stops. Alexander trips over his own feet trying to stop alongside him and just barely catches himself in time. “Breathe,” von Steuben says, grabbing Alexander’s upper arm gently. Alexander does. Tries. Mostly just succeeds in making choking noises. “I said we were impressed,” von Steuben says. He glances around briefly, while Alexander struggles to process that word. _Impressed._ He doesn’t--

The Baron tugs him into an office and shuts the door. The desk is covered in paper and files and three empty cans of Red Bull. Alexander wants to protest--this is _someone’s office--_ but then, no one would dare tell the Chief of Staff he couldn’t use their office.

“What’s going on?” Von Steuben looks so concerned, so unlike his usual effusive drill sergeant self, that Alexander almost confesses. _So I’ve been having a sadomasochistic affair with Thomas Jefferson and--_

“Nothing,” he says. “Just. Long night.”

“Your date went badly?”

Alexander’s confused for a second, then recalls-- _Not tonight. Hot date_ \--and _Jesus,_ it feels like a week ago, not twenty-four hours. “Not great,” he concedes, and forces a grin. “Ah well, can’t charm them all, right?”

Von Steuben still looks concerned, but he nods. “If you’re sure,” he says. “Anyway. We really were impressed. Keep it up, kid.”

“Impressed,” Alexander says. There’s that word again. Saying it aloud doesn’t make it sound any more real.

“Particularly in the way you emphasized the new Secretary’s work with pushing fishing regulations when he was heading up the Fish and Wildlife Service. Some might say it was a little overdone, or that your language was too lofty for the circumstance, but I thought you showed a remarkable ear for Washington’s voice. Not that any of this is surprising, mind.”

Alexander frowns as he struggles to process von Steuben’s analysis. “It’s not?”

“Hamilton, you’ve been a junior speechwriter for two and a half years, and we’ve been using more of your words than those of our communications chief and the head of speechwriting combined.”

“Oh.”

Von Steuben eyes him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Alexander nods. He feels a little dazed, a little disoriented, a little-- He feels warm from the praise, like when Jefferson holds him and tells him he’s done well, like when Eliza does the same, and he can’t bear it. Not right now. Not after-- “I should--” He waves his hand a little vaguely, his words escaping him.

He hates when this happens.

“I should get back to my office,” he finally manages, a little weakly. Von Steuben shrugs, and Alexander is struck by how grateful he is that the Chief of Staff has chosen not to comment on his temporary speechlessness.

“I’m headed that way myself. Walk with me?”

It’s not a question. Alexander nods anyway.

“So,” Von Steuben says, as they leave the office (to the bafflement of a pair of interns standing awkwardly outside the door). “How did your date _really_ go? And don’t say you ‘can’t charm them all’ because you and I both know that’s crap.”

Alexander winces. He’s still reeling a little from von Steuben’s praise of his writing and the strangely powerful reaction he had to said praise. The last thing he wants, the last thing he _needs,_ is to be stuck making up some story about his _date_ that he’ll never remember once he’s back in his right mind. “Sir, all due respect, I’d rather--”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t ask for _details,_ ” von Steuben says, waving a hand, though there’s a spark in his eye and Alexander knows if it were after midnight and the Chief of Staff approached him with  bottle of scotch he’d do exactly that. “Just--you know how it is, we want to make sure you’re being careful. Safe. So was this a first date, or is this someone you’ve been seeing for awhile?”

There it is, that ‘ _we’_ again. Alexander feels his face heating up again, though this time he’s flushed red with anger. “What’s it matter?”

“It doesn’t, of course.” The Chief of Staff’s voice is soothing, placating, and Alexander finds himself leaning into it--and then, shocked and furious, tearing himself away just as he hears von Steuben continue, “so, who was he? Or she?”

“None of your business,” Alexander snaps. “God, was this the whole point? Cornering me in the hall, pretending to give a shit about my speech when all you really wanted was to interrogate me about my date? Get information about my personal life?”

“Hamilton--”

“Did Washington ask you to do this? He ask you to soften me up with pretty words and compliments before getting the _real_ information? What’s he worried about?” Alexander’s barely managing to keep his voice at a low, angry hiss, instead of shouting like he’s almost desperate to do. “I’m not spilling White House secrets to every guy I fuck, _Baron_ \--” he spits the last word-- “and I’m not letting my personal life tarnish the reputation of anyone who works here. I swear to fucking _God,_ I’m not.”

Von Steuben stares at him. “Why would your--”

“ _Nothing,_ ” Alexander snaps, panicking a little at what he almost let slip. “I’m just _saying._ You have no right to demand anything about my personal life and I do not appreciate your dirty tactics.” He runs a hand through his hair, shakes his head. “I thought--nevermind what I thought. But at least now I know.”

“Know what?” von Steuben’s doing an excellent job of pretending to be bewildered. It just stokes the anger in Alexander’s gut.

“You were only ever concerned for Washington.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm slow but not dead

“There’s so much I want to do to you.”

Jefferson tugged at Alexander’s hair. The thin buzz of his Southern drawl set the room in motion again, but slower, and he could feel the air spinning around his heavy limbs. He swallowed, forcing himself steady. This was nothing new. He had a tendency to respond easily, particularly in new places, and it was not unlikely that the shock and stress of running into a co-worker was making him especially susceptible.

He batted his eyelashes, a move that always made Eliza laugh, and peered demurely up at Jefferson. “Oh?” he asked. “Tell me. Or even better, _do them_.”

Jefferson smirked at him and pulled his hair again, slowly wrapping larger pieces around his hand until he was able to tug Alexander’s head to the side. He tilted his own head opposite, smirking down at Alexander. “I would,” he says. “You have no idea how much I’d like to work you over, watch you squirm and _beg,_ give you what you want. Or _not._ ” He sighs dramatically. “Sadly, though, I did not bring my equipment.”

“Is that all?” Alexander laughed. “Come on. If you’re really that good, you don’t need your _equipment_.”

“Oh, I’m that good,” Jefferson said. He paused for a moment, clearly considering, and Alexander clenched his fists in his lap to keep from trembling. The silence stretched out between them, taut and breakable, and Alexander was tempted to poke it just to watch it _snap_. He let his mouth relax into a lazy smile.

“You know, I was really hoping I’d get to play sometime tonight,” Alex said, with a deep, long-suffering sigh. “So, look, if you’re not up to the task, I have a friend coming later. You should stick around, maybe learn a few things. You clearly need the lesson.”

Jefferson raised an eyebrow at him, his smirk slipping from his face. "Oh?" he said. "If that's the case, sure. But I promise you, _Alexander_ , no matter how skilled this friend of yours is, they won't be able to keep you from wondering what you're missing."

He wanted, badly, to tell Jefferson he was wrong. He wanted to shove him away and go back to his drink and wait for Eliza. He was sure they could give him a show to remember, and he had a fleeting thought of Jefferson staring at him, jaw slack, knowing what he just passed up and hating himself for it. But the image was all wrong, and despite his belief--even now--that he and Eliza could still be something incredible, he knew Jefferson was right. Eliza would be great, and Alexander wouldn't be able to enjoy it without thinking about Jefferson's smirk and Jefferson's drawl and Jefferson's awful, insufferable face. And Jefferson, _damn_ him, knew it.

"See? Not so hard, admitting what you want." Jefferson stepped in closer, so that their bodies were nearly flush, and ducked down to murmur against the curve of Alexander's ear. "Go pick out a hard point and wait for me. Show me what a good boy you can be."

And then he was gone, heading towards Franklin's office, before Alexander could even respond to that last sentence.

 

\- - -

 

He picked out a hard point near the back of the club. A long chain hung from the ceiling, a couple feet above Alexander's head. If he stood on his toes he could just barely touch it. He found himself wondering what Jefferson was planning; neither of them had brought rope, or anything else.

Still, at least Jefferson hadn't ordered him over to one of the benches.

Alexander was trying to figure out if Jefferson wanted him naked, or kneeling, or both, or neither (vague orders had never served him particularly well) when the man returned, holding a suspension ring. He clipped it onto the end of the chain and tugged on it a couple times before nodding, satisfied. Then he turned to Alexander and frowned.

"Not a great start, Alexander," he said. "If you can't follow simple orders."

"You didn't give me any _orders_ ," Alexander pointed out, glaring. "'Be a good boy' doesn't fucking count."

He bit his lip, after, worrying it, wondering if he'd overstepped, if Jefferson would think his outburst deserving of punishment. To his surprise, though, Jefferson reached out and brushed a thumb over his lip, freeing it from his teeth. Jefferson hummed lightly, and Alexander looked up to meet his gaze. Jefferson looked contemplative, but not angry, and Alexander shifted under his scrutiny.

"What?" he snapped.

"You like taking orders?"

Alexander shrugged. "I prefer it to guessing games. I'm not a fucking mind reader."

"Neither am I, as it happens," Jefferson said. "And I expect if I asked you to sit and detail your likes, dislikes, and limits, you would be as resistant as you're being now. Am I correct?"

"I know how to fucking negotiate. I've been doing this a while."

"I never said you didn't." Jefferson slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the blue pocket square he'd worn to the office that same day. "So, here's what's going to happen. You're going to strip for me, and you're going to hold onto that ring, and I'm going to figure out what you like. And since that mouth of yours can't be trusted, you won't be using it."

“I don’t--” Alexander started, eyes widening at the square. He didn’t play with gags. Didn’t trust them. And yet-- “Drop object?” he asked weakly, glancing around for one of the dungeon monitors. The ones back in New York always had bells or bouncy balls in the pockets of their vests.

Jefferson’s eyes flicked over to the ring. “Let go, whether by accident or intent, and everything stops,” he said.

And, _god_ , Alexander was actually considering this. The ammunition this would give Jefferson--not that he wasn’t already giving him too much, but--was almost too much to bear. He’d given total strangers his body before and not thought much of it. He’d never given anyone his _words._

He licked his lips. “Okay,” he said.

“Anything in particular I need to know?”

Alexander frowned at him. “What, _now_ you want to negotiate?”

“Specific things. _Relevant_ things. Anywhere you don’t want me to touch, for instance.”

He shook his head, letting his hair fall into his face a little to hide his flush at the thought of Jefferson _touching_ him, and shivered. “Not--there's nothing. Nothing relevant, I mean, I'm not one of those idiots who's all, ‘I don't have limits’.”

“Okay,” Jefferson said. Calm and understanding, like he was making a pointed effort not to judge him. A bubble of irritation rose in his gut. “If there’s nothing else, then, I believe I told you to strip.”

“Yes, _sir,_ ” Alexander said, and felt a small thrill of victory at Jefferson’s grimace. He’d thought it might be a thing, but it seemed to be just the opposite, which was even better.

“I’d prefer ‘ _Th_ _omas’,_ ” he said.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, _sir,_ ” he said again, just to watch the various shades of irritation flit across Jefferson’s face, and pulled his shirt off over his head. He ran his fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to find a mirror. He wasn't _Jefferson._

The other man was still staring at him, expectantly, and Alexander felt himself flushing red as he kicked his shoes off and then his jeans, so that he was in only his navy boxer briefs. He glanced up at Jefferson, who hadn’t so much as twitched, before shucking those off as well.

“Hold onto the ring, please.” An order disguised as a pleasant request. Alexander felt an argument rising up from his chest, and as the took hold of the ring, he opened his mouth to tell Jefferson exactly what he thought of his Dom style.

Only to find the pocket square jammed between his teeth, stopping his tongue and muffling his squeak of shock and indignation.

His body was stretched taut, but not uncomfortably; he couldn’t rest his whole weight on the floor, but neither did he struggle to grip the mat with his toes. All of him was on display, but Jefferson didn’t seem to care, instead focusing on Alexander’s face as he tried to calm himself.

“Good boy,” Jefferson said. “I knew there was one in there somewhere.”

Alexander tossed a few expletives and a little nonsense at Jefferson’s face, all of his words muffled by the gag, and Jefferson gripped the chain a few inches above the top of the ring. He _loomed._ Alexander had known Jefferson was taller than him--significantly taller, and hard to ignore--but he’d never felt _smaller_ than Jefferson. Jefferson had always been the freak of nature, while Alexander was perfectly normal, thank you very much.

It was disorienting, now, to feel so _small_.

“Settle down.” An order, this time, his voice low and insistent as he leaned in. Alexander found himself arching away, shivering as Jefferson stroked his face with his free hand. The tension didn’t leave his body, and he found himself winding tighter and tighter.

The hand moved, fingers tangling in his hair and _pulling,_ and Alexander screamed behind the gag at the sudden pain. He squirmed desperately, but didn’t kick, and didn’t let go, and eventually settled, groaning softly as Jefferson tugged at his hair in a slow, pulsing rhythm.

“Good,” Jefferson murmured again. Alexander whimpered.

He was still present.

The room was still bright, and he was still keenly aware of the scene going on behind him. One of the benches, he thought, a black horse. The floggers they were using didn’t have many falls, and kept getting caught on the horse, and the rhythm was all off. Normally he didn’t mind the ambient noise in the clubs. It was like an extra bassline for the soundtrack, and often heightened his own experience. But _this_ couple. He couldn’t see what they were doing, but he could _picture_ it. A weak arm throwing an equally weak flogger, a top pretending to frown in concentration while really just either bored or frustrated, and an unsatisfied bottom. Tragic, really, Alexander thought.

He didn’t notice Jefferson had moved until he felt the air shift across his back and a palm slammed into his left shoulder. Jefferson’s hand on his chest caught him before he could fall too far. He kept hold of the ring.

“Your attention,” Jefferson said.

Alexander made a dim choking noise behind the gag and glared at him. Jefferson smirked and hit him again, in the same place, fingers splayed out across Alexander’s shoulder. He tried to swallow the moan rising in his throat, but he heard it, loud and obvious. He could also hear Jefferson smirking.

“You like being hit.” Alexander blinked the dust from his eyes and glared at him. Of course he fucking liked being hit. That was the whole point of coming to these places. He didn’t risk his name and reputation for a _cuddle_.

Jefferson came back around him and gripped his chin. He stared straight into Alexander’s eyes, _searching._ Alexander forced himself to hold the gaze. Jefferson raised his hand, and Alexander didn’t flinch.

His feet fell out from under him at the impact, slamming hard into his side, and he yelped at the pull in his shoulders as he tried to breathe through the white hot throbbing, sparks over his skin--and then Jefferson was there. An arm wrapped around him, supporting him while his feet scrabbled against the floor.

Jefferson hummed and dragged his fingernails over what had to be a bright red mark on Alexander’s side. He tried to squirm away, but Jefferson was still holding him tight.

“Settle,” Jefferson said, and bit Alexander’s shoulder.

 

\-   -   -

 

The pocket square was soaked through by the time Jefferson finally plucked it from Alexander’s mouth. He wrapped it up in a white handkerchief and stuck it in his pocket. A souvenir, maybe, Alexander thought, and then pictured Jefferson showing up at work wearing the square and he shivered.

“Are you cold?” Jefferson asked. His voice was gentle. Alexander thought--was he cold? He couldn’t really tell. He didn’t think so. His skin was hot from Jefferson’s palm and stung from his teeth. There were long, burning scratches down his back, where Jefferson had dug in his nails.

He thought he might be bleeding, but none of the dungeon monitors had approached them about it, so either the Battery didn’t care or he wasn’t bleeding. There was a small draft from the air conditioning, and he could feel it on his oversensitive nipples--sore and red and throbbing from Jefferson’s particular attention, when he realized how Alexander liked to struggle when they were played with. There had been some mention of clamps, he remembered. He shuddered.

“Alexander?” Jefferson tried again. Right. Cold. He shook his head slowly. “I’m going to get you down now.”

Jefferson’s fingers covered his and slowly peeled them away from the ring. They were sore and stiff, and his shoulders were sorer, screaming at him as his arms were lowered. He whined.

“Do you want to sit?”

Alexander stared at him for a moment, trying to think--sitting sounded nice. His legs hurt. He was still--he was naked, and it had gotten more crowded, and he was standing there in front of everyone. He winced, his hands twitching slightly to cover himself. He was hard, but not painfully so, and even as he realized that Jefferson had no intention of getting him off, he was unbothered by the situation. It wasn’t cruel, nor was it a particular denial; it was more like Jefferson had not even noticed. Alexander felt a strange warmth creeping through his limbs.

“Here.”

Jefferson helped him into his boxer briefs and his shirt, and he considered Alexander’s jeans for a second before folding them carefully and draping them over his arm.

“Okay?” he asked. Alexander nodded. “Okay. We’re going to walk over to that table, and you’re going to sit while I clean up. Can you do that?”

He could do that.

 

\-   -   -

 

Two weeks later found Alexander at the Battery again.

Jefferson brought his equipment.

It became a pastime.

 

\-   -   -

 

Alexander slams the door of his office behind him and collapses in the middle of the floor. It’s a small miracle that John’s not here. He needs--he needs to think.

(He snapped at von Steuben, he _lost his shit_ at the _Chief of Staff_ and von Steuben’s probably in with the President right now, telling him all about how Alexander is crashing and burning and it’d be a mercy if they let him go before he could cause any more damage to the White House.)

He picks himself off the floor and stumbles over to his desk. His hip bumps against a corner and he groans at the sharp pain lancing through him. It’ll probably bruise, he thinks, poking at it and sinking into his chair. He tries to ignore the soreness in his thighs, keeps his back off the back of the chair, and attempts to focus. It’s not the pain that’s distracting, really--it’s the _reminder._ He can lean forward, and feel every welt, and remember Jefferson placing them there, and forget that he’s at work.

Jolting the desk has re-awoken his laptop and the speech, the one for the new Secretary of the Interior, is up on his screen. He frowns at it. The cursor blinks at him accusingly, and he thinks that maybe he should tweak the speech. There must be something he can do. His email’s annoyingly empty of anything he might actually care about, and he doesn’t have another assignment yet. But--

Von Steuben had liked it.

He should be getting the first round of comments soon.

His hands are shaking. He’d-- _fuck,_ he was so stupid. It wasn’t the first time von Steuben had asked about his dating life. They’d always had a close relationship, as far back as the campaign. and Alexander had never lost it like that before. Which means he was being _suspicious,_ which means von Steuben’s going to dig _further,_ and Alexander may have just outed himself.

God help him, if von Steuben finds out about Jefferson--

The door bangs open. Alexander jumps about a foot in the air, then slams his head on his desk and groans. “Scared the shit out of me,” he groans.

“Sorry,” John says, dumping his laptop on his desk and dropping sideways into his chair. He sounds distracted. Alexander thinks about asking if he’s okay, but that never does anything but bring attention to his own… _particular_ state. John doesn’t like gory details, but he does tend to fuss. He also gets a glint in his eye, like he’s itching to challenge whoever hurt Alexander, no matter how much the hurt was wanted. Sometimes he likes the reminder that John cares. Right now, it’s not exactly something he wants to deal with.

He grunts, instead, and turns back to his laptop. Another mass email from one of the social media interns pings into his inbox. He hates the font. He hits delete without bothering to read the message.

There’s a chain from Duer, as well. Two emails asking for clarification on some of the notes Alexander had given him on his report, and a follow-up ‘nevermind’. He can almost _hear_ the embarrassment in that last one, and while it should give him some kind of pride or vindication, he doesn’t feel anything at all.

He’s contemplating that, picking through the mess of apathy and sensitivity that is his current emotional state and promising himself for what’s probably the fiftieth time that he’s never playing on a Thursday again, when a knock jolts him out of his thoughts.

Jefferson’s leaning against the doorframe, holding a paper bag and a thick stack of paper.

“What do you want?” Alexander asks, and winces at his tone. Harsh.

If Jefferson notices, he doesn’t care. “Your speech,” he says.

“I wasn’t aware Legislative Affairs gave a shit about a dinner honoring the Secretary of the Interior.”

“We don’t, generally,” Jefferson says. “But considering how contentious certain conservation issues have been in the last couple of months, my office wanted to take a look. Make sure nothing was going to--ah-- _undermine_ our efforts.” He smirks. “At least, in that respect, it’s fine. It won’t damage us _politically._ ”

Alexander frowns at him. He can feel John staring at them and wonders what he must be thinking. Wonders what he sees. Hopes they aren’t giving anything away. “So, what then? You came all the way down here to tell me the speech is _fine?_ ”

Jefferson laughs. It makes Alexander’s skin prickle, makes his breath stutter, makes him-- “It’s pretty far from _fine_ , Hamilton,” he says. “I’ve seen more compelling imagery in my twitter mentions, and if you think the President of the United States is going to give a speech in which he venerates an insignificant cabinet secretary as if he were a visiting Head of State--”

“Washington likes that I’m lofty--”

“Hamilton, the only thing that’s _lofty_ in this entire mess is your _ego._ Frankly, I had to force myself through the secondhand embarrassment reading your _drivel_ imposed on me.” Jefferson snorts and flips through the pages. “And here--you spend _eight_ _pages_ talking about _fish._ It's like a horror show.”

Alexander opens his mouth to retort, as he always does, as they always _do--_

And nothing comes out.

His words are _gone._ He’s sitting there--no, he’s standing now, when did he stand up?--and he’s gaping soundlessly at Jefferson. His limbs are heavy and his head is buzzing and he says _nothing_.

“Shit, look at that. Finally managed to silence you,” Jefferson says, smirking. He unclips the pages and holds them out. “My notes are in red. You’ll probably get more soon enough, but I wanted you to have _mine,_ first. Because unlike everyone else in this building, I don’t fawn over mediocrity.”

Alexander’s hands are shaking when he reaches out to take the papers. He knows half a second before it happens that he won’t be able to hold on, and the speech ends up scattered haphazardly on the floor.

“Oh dear,” Jefferson says. “I hope those were numbered. Oh, wait, they _weren’t._ Do you even know _how_ to number them?”

“Fuck off,” Alexander manages at last, wincing at the crack in his voice. He drops to his knees and starts gathering up the pages. The buzzing in his head is louder. He wants to kneel lower, wants to curl in on himself and press his head to the floor. He wants to be sick.

“Sure,” Jefferson says. “You have a _lot_ of work to do, making that presentable. I’ll leave you to it. But first--” He drops the paper bag in front of Alexander.

Alexander’s hands shake as he opens it, and he tries his hardest not to grimace when he sees the label on the sandwich.

“I had the cafeteria make it _special,_ ” he says. “Spam and kale, with extra mustard. You will eat it before you fix the speech.”

Somewhere off to the side, he hears John make a quiet, disgusted noise. His own stomach roils, and he realizes he’s starving. He hasn’t eaten all day. He should really--

“What do you say?” Jefferson asks.

Alexander looks up at him. Jefferson’s expression is blank, but there’s a firmness to it, and Alexander is sure he’s forgotten where they are--the door is open, there are a dozen people within earshot, _John is right there--_ but maybe he hasn’t forgotten. Maybe it just doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter to him. He’s aware, _more_ than aware, but he’s _calm,_ and although he itches to--he doesn’t know--he feels oddly content.

“Thank you,” Alexander says, and then, without thinking, " _Sir._ "

Jefferson nods. He closes the door on his way out, and Alexander feels his body collapse in the silence.

“What the _fuck._ ”

Shit.

John.

Alexander looks up at him, then winces and looks away. John’s standing up at his desk, face red and fists clenched, and Alexander’s not sure which of them he wants to punch. Maybe both of them. Alexander knows he deserves it.

“John. Please.”

“ _No_.” Alexander winces again, at the force in John’s voice. “Don’t fucking--you and _Jefferson_? This whole time, you--”

Alexander shakes his head. He wants to explain--that it's nothing, that more often or not they still hate each other even when they're  _together--_ but he’s not sure if that’s true anymore. Not on his end, anyway.

He tries to gather the papers on the floor, but his hands are shaking so hard he can barely grip them, much less push them in any kind of order. He doesn’t look at John, but in his periphery he can see him packing up his laptop and slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you Monday,” he says. Alexander tries to nod, but his neck won’t move. He rests his palms flat on the floor and listens to the door click open and slam shut.

He blinks.

His hands are wet.


	5. Chapter 5

For a place that is fully and exclusively occupied by workaholics, the White House is oddly quiet on the weekends.

Or, at least, Alexander’s little corner of the West Wing is quiet. He hears footsteps in the hall occasionally, when his watch finally displays a moderately sane hour, and a raised voice now and then, but it’s nothing like the constant Monday-through-Friday din. Everyone important has their offices a decent distance away from him. Not to mention, one of the perks of working in a building as old as the White House is that his office door is _heavy._ And reasonably soundproof.

It does make his office echo a little more, his wayward thoughts bouncing off the walls, but it’s _peaceful,_ almost, and he can _think._

He doesn’t know how long it took him to stand up after John left. A few minutes, maybe longer, definitely no more than half an hour. Probably. It was long enough, at least, for his knees to protest weakly. He shudders. Jefferson had never--

It was new.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it. Parts of it. He liked Jefferson standing over him. He liked being crouched at Jefferson’s feet. He even liked the sharp humiliation sliding over his skin, hooking into his flesh and drawing him to Jefferson, and he liked the aching desperation to win his approval.

But.

_John._

And that was what sent him crashing back down. His face was sticky and wet, though he couldn’t recall crying, and he could feel the rough carpeting through the thin fabric of his slacks. He sat back on his heels and surveyed the mess in front of him. The pages of his speech weren’t numbered, and he kicked himself for it as he gathered them into a manageable stack. Jefferson was right. Jefferson was right about _everything._

Jefferson crossed a line.

John knew about them. John was _disgusted._

 _Alexander’s_ disgusted.

And, speaking of which, there was the matter of the sandwich. Grimacing, Alexander piled the stack of papers on the corner of his desk and closed the lid of his laptop, placing the sandwich bag on top of it.

Normally, he preferred to keep working while he ate. It was out of necessity more than desire, most of the time, but it had become habit, so that when he had nothing to focus on but his food, he felt a strange creeping itch to be doing something _else._ To be _occupied._

He did not allow himself to be distracted. He took small bites and did not dive for his coffee mug to drown out the taste. Every time he swallowed he was reminded of his failures. It was a punishment--there was no other word for it--and Jefferson hadn’t had the right, but Jefferson _also_ had made sure Alexander would be the one to administer it.

Alexander dragged his fingernails over the soft insides of his arms. Scratching, not goring. Thin pink lines. He breathed through the last few bites, stubborn to a _fault,_ but when he was left with nothing but crumbs and paper and a stray smear of mustard, the quiet catharsis he’d been expecting was evading him.

He opened his laptop and saved the original draft of the speech as _wtf-fish-disaster-awful-do-not-use.docx_ , because he still remembered his high school English teacher berating him for deleting drafts. And there was a chance, Alexander thought, that Jefferson was wrong. The thought _itself_ was wrong, but.

He saved another copy of the speech as _sec-int-do-better.docx_ and got to work.

\-   -   -

He can think, when it’s quiet.

Alexander doesn’t stay in the office over weekends much. Between the other speechwriters, John, von Steuben, and Hercules, he has over half a dozen babysitters making sure he actually goes home, though they can’t control what he does once he’s there. He’s not sure if they know he’s still at work and don’t care to bother him anymore, or if they don’t know, but he’s definitely sure that he doesn’t want an answer to that question.

His phone is turned off. He doesn’t want to know if John has sent further beratement or (unlikely) an apology, and he doesn’t want to know if Jefferson’s done the same. He stuffs his phone into his bag and doesn’t think about it. His computer and his watch will tell him the time.

He also, very pointedly, does not open his email.

\-   -   -

John’s coffee machine breaks late Saturday afternoon.

Alexander finds instant coffee packets, mugs, and a hot plate in one of the meeting rooms. There’s no cream or sugar, which is disappointing, but caffeine is the main concern. He packs everything into a neat stack and skitters back to his office. Nobody sees him, though he hears footsteps a couple corridors away as he slips around the corner.

He settles back in his chair and watches the cursor blink halfway down page one of one of _sec-int-do-better.docx._ Tap water steams, but doesn’t come close to boiling, in the mug on the hot plate. He sticks his pinky in and finds it tepid.

Better than nothing, he supposes, and adds the instant coffee.

Alexander takes a sip, grimaces, and holds down the backspace key.

\-   -   -

Saturday evening, Alexander demolishes the box of granola bars in the bottom drawer of John’s desk.

He makes a mental note to replace them, but knows he probably won’t.

Just one more thing for him to feel guilty about, he supposes, as he rereads the most recent paragraph of the speech. He’s all the way on page five now.

His wording is clunky and inartful and he can’t stop deleting adjectives.

But this draft is better than the last one. It has to be better. _He_ has to be better. The desperation chokes him, and he writes and rewrites and deletes and paces and at some point his desk lamp ends up broken in three pieces and the light bulb is smashed into the carpet.

\-   -   -

By Sunday afternoon Alexander’s on page seven and a half. He’s written a list of platitudes and cliches on a ream of yellow memo paper and taped it to the broken lamp, where he can see it, and every time he starts using something on the list he rams his foot into the side of his desk.

Every now and then, he pauses to add another phrase to the list.

He’s running out of room. He never noticed it before, how much he relies on meaningless stock phrases. It’s disgusting.

The hours tick away, faster and faster, and he _tries,_ but every time he thinks he’s on a roll and has beaten whatever it is that holds his words in an iron grip, he falters. Stutters. Rereads what he’s written and can only see the glaring faults. He’s down to nine hours to fix this--and then seven, and then six.

His eyes burn. The room spins.

\-   -   -

Alexander wakes with a start.

His watch tells him it’s just after six a.m., and that it’s Monday, but it can’t tell him why he woke so suddenly, or why Thomas Jefferson’s standing in the doorway.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Jefferson states. Alexander blinks at him.

“I turned it off.”

Jefferson steps into his office, and Alexander winces at the tense line of his shoulders, the accusation in his dark brown eyes, the severe purse of his lips. “You turned it off.” His frown deepens. “Have you been here all weekend?”

“I had to fix the speech.” Alexander waves his hand at his laptop--he’s on page eighty-seven now, but it appears he fell asleep on the F key--and the assorted mess on his desk. “I--I tried, anyway. I don’t know if it’s better. I tried to be better.” He wrings his hands together and tries not to shake. “I don’t think I--”

“Get up,” Jefferson interrupts. Alexander keeps fidgeting under his desk. “You’ve been here for seventy-two hours straight, at _least._ Have you even eaten?”

Alexander glares. “Of course. I had a _sandwich_ ,” he says pointedly, “and some granola bars.”

Jefferson shakes his head. “Get up,” he repeats. “I won’t ask again.”

 _Or what,_ Alexander wants to say, but his back is aching from sleeping hunched over his desk, and his stomach is in knots, and, frankly, he’s exhausted. He’s sure Jefferson will have something to say about him being _too tired_ to argue.

For now, though, he unfolds himself from his desk chair, throws his phone in his pocket, and follows Jefferson out of his office.

\-   -   -

Jefferson skips right past the staircase leading to the cafeteria. He leads Alexander past offices and desks and coffee carts all the way to the main lobby, and then leads him right outside.

It occurs to him, then, that this is strange.

“Where are we going?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. His phone is still off. He drags his finger over the power button a few times, but doesn’t switch it on.

“I know a place a few blocks away,” Jefferson says, without looking at him. “Better food than the stuff here, much louder music, and fewer people trying to listen in.”

Alexander bobs his head--Jefferson doesn’t see it--and half-jogs a little to catch up with Jefferson’s long, purposeful strides. He notices the slow procession of early risers trickling towards the White House, most of them bleary-eyed and half asleep, but one or two catch a glimpse of Alexander and Jefferson walking together. He can’t read their expressions, but he knows whatever’s going on with their eyebrows is not complimentary.

They walk down the street in silence, Jefferson walking with his head high as pedestrians part before him, Alexander dodging elbows and messenger bags and trying not to swear at the dozens of people who very clearly aren’t watching where they’re going. As promised, the cafe is just under six blocks, and Alexander is dead on his feet at the end of the walk. The weekend finally catching up with him.

“I’ll order,” Jefferson says. He still doesn’t look at Alexander. “Go pick a table.”

That’s fucking _it._ Alexander thinks he probably would have obeyed, before Friday, but something between them is starting to crumble and while Jefferson’s smirking tone still sends shivers through his limbs, he hates himself for it a little more. “I can order for myself,” he snaps.

“You don’t trust me?”

He snorts. “No.”

Jefferson finally does look at him, then. His smile is definitely condescending, and his eyes are hard. “I’m making things right,” he says, and Alexander hates the way he yearns for that. “You should let me. And go pick a table.”

“Fine,” Alexander says, crossing his arms petulantly. He spins around and all but stomps over to an empty table by the window. He sits with his back to the sun and allows a satisfied grin to spread over his face.

By the look he gets from a guy crumbling bits of scone into his coffee at the next table, it’s terrifying.

\-   -   -

Jefferson places the stand with the number 27 on the table and slides into the chair across from Alexander. He winces immediately. Alexander pretends not to notice.

“Laurens knows about us,” Alexander blurts out.

Jefferson blinks slowly. His normally sardonic glare is tempered significantly by the sun blasting into his face. “What?”

“Laurens. John Laurens? Shares my office? Banned from Capitol Hill? Was _there_ Friday afternoon?” Alexander taps his foot against the floor in a manic rhythm. His skin itches fiercely.  “He's not stupid, Thomas. He figured it out.”

“How much does he--”

Alexander shrugs. “We roomed in college. He knows about me. No specifics, though; he always got kind of a weird look whenever he saw the. Uh. _Evidence._ ” He thinks about telling Jefferson that John’s temper hasn’t gotten any better since the Lee incident. And since Gawker outed him halfway through law school--causing a dramatic fallout that resulted in John being disowned and dropping out of school to join Washington’s campaign, while the 24-hour-cable-news networks watched with blatant glee--John’s temper’s only gotten worse. He thinks about making it a veiled, or not-so-veiled, threat.

He decides against it. He can’t be sure, right now, where John’s aiming.

“I dunno what he thinks now,” Alexander continues. His knees are shaking, his foot rising clear off the floor as it taps. “John kinda left in a hurry after you finished, and you kidnapped me before he got in.” He's trying for flippant. He's trying to convince Jefferson, maybe more than himself, that this isn't a problem and John isn't--

 _Isn't so disgusted with you he can't bear to come to work,_ his ever-helpful brain supplies.

It's ridiculous. He knows it's ridiculous. But it doesn't stop him wondering.

“Stop,” Jefferson says.

“What?”

Jefferson leans back in his chair. The sun moves slightly off his face, and he glares at Alexander. “Feet flat. _Now._ ”

Alexander freezes. He twists his hands in his lap and ducks his head, his whole body warm from Jefferson’s tone. He presses his feet flat into the floor and blinks rapidly.

“Good boy,” Jefferson murmurs. Alexander digs his nails into his palms and forces himself not to react to the praise, to the shiver that runs through him at Jefferson’s words. He can feel his knee starting to tremble.

Something in his face gives it away, because then Jefferson’s feet are pressing down on his. Strong calves more than a match for his restless limbs. He can’t bite back a whimper, and Jefferson smiles. Warm. It’s more than a little unnerving.

He’s trying to figure out what to say, how to react, when the waitress swings by and plucks their number off their table. She replaces it with a mug of black coffee and a blueberry bagel for Jefferson, and a quiche and croissant for Alexander. Jefferson thanks her and flashes her a wide smile. It turns into a smirk as he watches her walk away with a dazed look on her face.

“You got me a quiche.”

Jefferson reaches into the little condiment rack in the middle of their table and holds the sriracha out to him. “I wanted to apologize.”

The bottle nearly falls through Alexander’s fingers.

“I was out of line.”

“Yeah, you were,” Alexander says. He still feels like he’s in shock. He shakes a few drops of hot sauce on his quiche and watches them spread, spider-like, over the egg, before upending the bottle again. Jefferson is silent, his expression scrutinizing, and Alexander’s knee twitches again. Jefferson presses his toes down, hard, into the arches of Alexander’s feet.

“I have also,” Jefferson continues on. His voice is flat. It’s been flat through his entire apology, his expression calm and blank. “I have also come to realize that I may have not been _clear_ with you. About what I _expect_.”

Alexander takes a bite of quiche. Bacon and cheese and a little bit of onion. His shock must show on his face, because Jefferson is smiling.

“Good?”

He swallows. Nods.

“Good,” Jefferson repeats, satisfied.

Alexander tries the croissant next, and finds it filled with chocolate. Jefferson watches him lick his fingers. Alexander squirms, and the pressure on his feet increases, just a little. “What do you mean, what you _expect?_ ” he asks. He wants to control the waver in his voice, but fails. “If this is about what I told you Friday--what I said _Thursday--_ ”

“I’m not your Dom,” Jefferson interrupts. “I’m not your Dom, and I don’t want to _be_ your Dom. I don’t want a sub.”

Alexander shoves another forkful of quiche in his mouth, forces himself to chew before responding. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He shrugs. “I kind of got that,” he says. “I mean, sure, at first I thought I just wasn’t _good enough_ , but after awhile I figured it out.”

“Oh?” Jefferson says. He leans forward. The sun blinds him for a second, making him wince, before moving off his face as he presses his elbows to the table. “What did you figure out?”

“You want to keep playing, right?” Alexander asks. “You want to keep seeing me at the Battery. You want to send me emails with terrible code and meet me at the Battery and then, when you’re done showing off, you want to dump me back on my doorstep and forget about me.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Alexander digs his nails into the table. “Oh, _wait,_ I forgot the _best_ part. You want to keep pulling these shitty little power trips and expect me to play along, but _god fucking forbid_ I actually _feel_ anything about you.”

“ _Alexander._ ” Jefferson’s voice drops and smooths out, slick and easy, and Alexander finds his breathing evening. He blinks. “I did not mislead you. I did not lie to you. I did not promise you anything more than what we currently have. I admit I overstepped on Friday, and for that, I apologize. But I will not apologize because you read something into our arrangement that is not there and has never been there.”

Alexander flushes and ducks his head. _Fuck._ Jefferson’s right. He never promised anything, and Alexander finds himself suddenly feeling horribly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry.”

Jefferson smiles. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’m glad you understand. Eat your quiche.”

There’s a slow churning in his stomach as he does. Jefferson doesn’t look away from Alexander as they eat, and every so often his feet press down on Alexander’s, reminding him he’s still trapped, that Jefferson’s still in power.

Except.

Jefferson’s _not_ in power. He just said as much.

“Can I have my feet back?” Alexander asks. “Since you’re not my Dom, and all.”

The pause stretches on for several seconds, as Jefferson scrutinizes him. “Are you going to stay still?”

The churning in his stomach spins faster. Sparks. “Does it matter?” he snaps. “You just got done telling me you don’t want to--” he takes a breath, waves his hand. “And yet. Here you are. Doing the same fucking thing. And you wonder why I thought--”

Jefferson takes a drink of his coffee. “Settle down,” he says. His hand is trembling slightly.

“You don’t want me as a sub. Which, _f_ _ine,_ whatever. But do you want me _at all?_ ” Alexander rips the rest of his croissant in half, then half again. “What _exactly_ do you want from me?”

“Right now? I want you to be _quiet._ ” Jefferson says.

The spark ignites. “I’ll do better,” Alexander says, and jerks his feet out from under Jefferson’s. His knees hit the table and their dishes clatter against the fair-trade wood. People are staring at them. He doesn’t give a shit.

He wants to spit something dramatic in Jefferson’s direction-- _Fuck you,_ maybe, or _We’re done,_ or even his safeword. _Something_ to make it _absolutely clear_ that he never wants to see Jefferson’s face again.

He doesn’t say anything.

\-   -   -

Alexander slams the cafe door behind him and steps out onto the busy DC sidewalk. He turns left and starts heading north--the long way back to the White House, but _fuck_ it, he needs to think. And he needs, especially, to be as far away from Thomas _Fucking_ Jefferson as humanly possible.

He’s _not_ in love with the man, he tells himself. He has more self-respect than that. Not a lot, sure, but _some._ Jefferson doesn’t want him? That’s fine. That’s more than fine, actually, that’s definitely for the best, and anyway, it’s not like Alexander couldn’t find another Dom in a _second._

Some lawyer walks into him as Alexander’s taking out his phone, sharp corner of the lawyer’s briefcase catching him right below the ribs, and he bites back a yelp. He hears the guy mutter ‘damn millennials’ under his breath, despite being thirty at _most,_ and Alexander yells ‘fuck you, asshole’ over his shoulder.

He gets a couple dirty looks for it, but it’s worth it. He feels lighter, after that, cleansed, more like _himself_ than he’s felt in days. His steps are a little quicker as he switches his phone on for the first time since Friday.

Immediately, he sees he’s missed several texts and a couple dozen calls and has four voicemails. He ignores the ones sent from John and taps Eliza’s contact instead. She hadn’t called at all, but had sent one long text Saturday afternoon telling him John is being looked after and Alexander should take all the time he needs but please let her know he’s okay, and another, shorter text Sunday night telling him he’s being ridiculous.

She’s not wrong, he thinks. And since he and Jefferson--whatever they were, they’re _over--_ he thinks John might actually forgive him. He hopes so, anyway, and mostly because the thought of _not_ being forgiven is something he doesn’t even want to consider.

He thinks about texting Eliza, telling him he’s okay and he’ll deal with John, but--no.

Instead, he presses the green phone icon and listens to it ring as he dodges a bicyclist through the intersection.

She picks up on the third ring and her ‘Hello, Eliza Schuyler,’ echos oddly on the other end.

“Am I on speaker?” Alexander asks immediately. There’s a long pause, and he imagines her looking at his name on the screen, closing her eyes, and appealing to whatever higher power she believes in for patience.

“Alex,” she says, and there’s some shuffling on the other end before she comes back, normal. “What the hell--”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “For not texting you back or--I was in the office. I turned off my phone.”

“All weekend?”

Alexander shrugs, then remembers she can’t see him. “Yeah, I had to fix a speech.”

“John thought--”

“I know.” Alexander looks down at his feet, treading over the uneven sidewalk. He can hear the waver in Eliza’s voice, how she’s fighting not to chew him out the way she wants. The way he deserves. “He’s always been… concerned, like that.”

“Can you blame him?”

He can’t. “I’ll talk to him when I get back to the office,” he says. “I thought you deserved more than a text, and so does he.”

“Where are you now?”

“On my way back. Taking the long route. Thomas--” His breath hitches. The next part--he needs to get used to saying it. “Thomas took me for breakfast. We’re over.” He hates that it hurts as much as it does.

Eliza’s silent for a long time. Long enough that Alexander pulls his phone away from his ear and checks the screen. Her name’s still up, the duration clock still ticking away over the photo of her at the inaugural ball. So the call hasn’t dropped. He puts the phone back just in time to hear her murmur a vague, “I’m sorry, that sucks.”

“Thanks,” he says. “It’s fine, though. Probably going to be awkward for awhile, and while I’m hoping I won’t throw a jealous fit at whatever pretty thing he picks up to replace me…”

“You’re _you,_ ” she says, and Alexander finds himself laughing. He also, now that he’s brought it up, can’t stop thinking about who Jefferson might pick up. There are a handful of cute playsluts who frequent the Battery, usually up to playing with whoever asks, but Jefferson likes a challenge. He’d also want to show off.

He’d _also_ want to hurt Alexander as much as possible.

“I can hear you thinking,” Eliza says. “Stop it.”

 _I can’t_ , he wants to say, but instead hums out an assent.

“Look, Alex, I wish I could talk with you more, but I have to go to a meeting.” Eliza takes a breath, and when she speaks again, her voice is _steel_. “Stop dawdling, go back to work, and talk to John.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Alexander says, before he can stop himself, and _fuck._

“I’ll talk to you later,” she says, a couple fractions softer.

He doesn’t get another word in before she hangs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (special thanks to [evocates](http://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates) on this chapter. ilu)


End file.
